**A Mother’s Boy: Memories of an Old Granny from the Care Home**
You know, my dear, as I sit here in my care home, I find myself reminiscing about my youth—especially about my son, Alfie. Oh, he was such a handsome lad back in Year 10 or 11. At that age, all children are lovely, aren’t they? Boys and girls alike. But as the old saying goes, some are just nice-looking, while others are truly striking. Alfie was one of the latter.
Tall and lean, with a bit of stubble that made him look older than he was. Not a gym rat, but far from scrawny. The girls would stare, but he was always a bit aloof, you see. Being a music teacher, I did my best to get him smart shirts and decent shoes, even though times were tough. I’d always tell him:
«Don’t just marry anyone, son. Your girl ought to be special—pretty, clever, from a proper family. Otherwise, you might get tangled up before you know it.»
And sure enough, a few tried their luck—Molly with her silly notes, dark-haired Sophie, ginger-haired Vera. They’d ask him to dances, to the cinema—he’d tell me all about it. But I knew they weren’t right for him. One had parents who rowed constantly, another struggled with English Lit, and the third was just too short. I’d say:
«They’re not the one, love. Wait for better.»
But he fancied that ginger Vera, wanted to dance with her at the school ball. So he asked her. Dim lights, silk dresses, slow music—the kind where you sway close, not spin apart. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he was smitten! Thought to himself: *This is it, she’s the one.*
Later, he told me everything, and I asked:
«And who are her parents?»
He said:
«Just her mum. Her dad left ages ago. She doesn’t even understand why.»
I put my foot down:
«She’s not for you, son.»
It wasn’t easy for me either—I was divorced, and things hadn’t worked out with my husband. He wasn’t a bad man, but something was missing. I kept everything running—house tidy, meals on time—while he’d strum his guitar in the corner, lost in his own world.
And I didn’t make life easy for my boy either: study, work, girls could wait. I’d say:
«Finish university first, then we’ll see.»
Lord knows I kept an eye on him, making sure he didn’t get into trouble. I’d heard of lads who ran wild, then wound up married with a baby on the way.
At uni, Alfie was serious—took notes, attended lectures, stayed out of mischief. There was a girl there, Emily, nice enough, but my mother didn’t approve. She’d say:
«She’s not the one, love.»
They’d stay behind after class, chatting, but nothing came of it. Eventually, she moved on with someone else.
I kept everything in check—meals ready, shirts ironed. I was terrified some no-good girl would steal my boy away. Because my Alfie—he was my whole world.
Then my husband passed suddenly, left me alone. People said, «You’re not the first, won’t be the last,» but it wasn’t easy. I lived for my son.
Now he walks through town in the evenings—so much has changed! New buildings, new parks, even the cinema’s been redone. And here I sit, in this care home, thinking of him. Yesterday, I spotted him in a crowd—Emily was beside him, but he didn’t see me.
My mother’s poorly now, never leaves the house. She tells him:
«Get married, Alfie, get married. There’s no one to cook or clean for you now.»
But I know—who’s left for him, really?
So here I am, an old granny in my little room, thinking how hard it is to be a mother… especially when your son’s a proper «mama’s boy,» and you’re his whole world.
That’s how it is, my dear. Life teaches you that even the closest can be both your greatest treasure and your harshest fate. But I love my Alfie all the same. He’s mine.